


Behind the Scenes

by Verecunda



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: Humour, M/M, PWP, Sexual Content, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2012-08-21
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:16:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verecunda/pseuds/Verecunda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles may have ruined Mike’s scoop at the Prom, but being the sporting fellow he is, he’s more than willing to make it up to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind the Scenes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the _Horrible Histories_ books, TV series, or Prom.
> 
> A/N: Written for a prompt on the HH anon meme on LJ.

Mike sighed, listening to the music floating through from the auditorium, and poked listlessly at the blancmange in the pot on his lap. He’d bought it from one of the ushers, a chap called Neil who’d been passing by with a tray full of historical snacks. He wasn’t really sure what was in the blancmange, and given what he knew about historical food, he wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to know. He had other things on his mind, anyway.

Bloody typical, really. The one time he got a non-life-threatening exclusive, and it blew up right in his face. Now the auditorium was full of Vikings, and he’d decided to stay out in the hall, just in case they decided to get axe-happy after their number. He knew what Vikings were like, and he rather liked being alive. Nope, better to sit out here against the wall eating his suspicious blancmange. Bloody historical people...

“What on earth are you doing out here, Mike?”

Speak of the devil.

Mike looked up. King Charles II was standing over him, hands on hips, looking down at him with one eyebrow cocked. Mike glared at him, the boozy bloody rapping Stuart who’d stolen his thunder right in front of the camera.

“Eating a blancmange, Your Majesty.”

Charles either didn’t notice or chose to ignore his sarcasm. “Wouldn’t eat that if I were you,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It’s made from chicken brains.”

Mike immediately put the pot down, fighting the urge to be sick over Charles’ fancy buckled shoes. Serve him right if he did, though.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” said Charles with a slight smirk.

Mike couldn’t agree more.

“No luck with Queen Victoria, then?” he asked, for something to say, though that thought really _did_ make him want to throw up.

Charles sighed. “Regrettably not. She’s still locked in the monarchs’ toilet, crying her eyes out. I think I’ve missed my shot there.”

Mike suppressed a shudder. He’d met his fair share of Stuarts, and he knew they could be a weird bunch, but Charles’ crush on Queen Victoria was definitely one of the most disturbing things he’d come across in a while. Why would a bloke like Charles, who could - and _did_ \- get any woman he wanted, go after _Queen Victoria_? No offence to Vic, but she was no Cleopatra.

“Are you planning to sit there all afternoon?” asked Charles.

He shook his head. “No.” He was about to add _“Just till the Vikings are gone”_ , but Charles suddenly beamed and exclaimed, “Good!” then hauled him up with surprising strength, before promptly marching him along the corridor to the dressing rooms. 

“Hey!” Mike exclaimed. “Where are we going?”

“Just to my dressing room,” replied Charles, pulling him along by the hand.

“Why?”

“Well,” said Charles, matter-of-factly, as if it were all very simple, “I was sitting in there by myself, you were sitting out there by _your_ self. What fun is a party on your own?”

“Party?” Mike asked stupidly.

“Of course!” Charles laughed. “It’s a special occasion, isn’t it, this Prom, all us historical people coming together in one great extravaganza. I’ve got a bottle of bubbly in my dressing room, and I don’t think I’ll manage to get through it myself.”

That was the moment where Mike decided _screw it_ and let himself be yanked along by the Merry Monarch. Even if it was Charles who’d ruined his scoop, he sure as hell wasn’t going to say no to a free glass of champagne. And, truth be told, he couldn’t really complain about the way Charles’ warm hand was wrapped around his, those long, slender fingers linked with his own.

When they reached the dressing rooms, they passed Mozart, who was shouting into Beethoven’s ear - hard to tell if it was another argument or just a casual chat - then further along, past a row of doors. He saw a sign for George IV - and another hastily tacked on one for George III - from behind which he could hear another voice shouting: “I can’t believe you would embarrass me out there! That was my big solo, and you _had_ to show me up, as always! Stop talking to that pot plant and look at me, Dad!”

They finally reached the door marked “Charles II”. Charles turned and gave Mike a rather roguish smile. “Well, this is me,” he said, before turning the doorknob and ushering Mike inside.

Mike wasn’t really sure what he’d been expecting to find inside, but given that this was the _Royal_ Albert Hall, and the room was currently being occupied by a king, he’d probably have expected it to be a bit... bigger. But all it was was a plain, poky little cubbyhole. The only hints to the identity of its occupant were the cloak and flamboyant feathered hat hanging on the hook on the door.

Charles locked the door with a click, then bustled further into the room. “Do sit down, do sit down,” he said, flapping his hands at one of the chairs. Mike did as he was told, feeling slightly awkward. It just felt a bit odd to be sitting in here with King Charles II, with no guards or servants or anyone. He didn’t think kings and queens usually travelled alone. After all, George IV had his dad with him (whether he liked it or not), and he knew for a fact that Cleopatra had a whole retinue of slaves-cum-backing-dancers who’d smuggled her in the backstage door in a carpet. The only exception seemed to be Richard III, and that was only because everyone seemed too scared to go anywhere near him.

“Don’t you have anyone with you, Your Majesty?” 

“Charles, please,” he said breezily. “Yes, it’s just me, I’m afraid. Usually, I have my aide Sotherby, but he’s still in the 1600s, looking after things while I’m here.”

“Oh,” was the best thing Mike could think to say to that, and he settled for watching as Charles brought out a bucket full of ice and a bottle of champagne, making a meal out of every single movement, popping the cork and pouring the foaming champagne into two glasses. He handed one to Mike with a smile.

“Here. By way of an apology for ruining your report earlier.”

Mike’s eyebrows shot up. Apologies weren’t something he usually expected to hear from historical monarchs. But it was a nice surprise - the only nice one so far today - and he had to admit, Charles did have a _very_ disarming smile. He found himself smiling back as he took the glass.

“No problem, Your Maje - er - Charles. And... er... sorry for screwing up your move on Queen Vic earlier.”

“Already forgotten, my man!” Charles flashed a grin and raised his glass. “So, what should we toast to?”

Mike shrugged. “Er... how about to the Prom’s success?”

“Marvellous idea!” Charles beamed. “Well - cheers!”

“Cheers!”

Their glasses clinked together cheerfully, and in unison they both tipped back their heads back and downed their champagne. When they’d both emptied their glasses, they grinned at each other.

“Good stuff,” Charles remarked. “Care for another one?”

Mike hesitated. It was one thing to interview famous historical figures; sharing a drink with them wasn’t something he’d ever done before. He prided himself on his professionalism, whether it was dealing with Stuart royals or Neanderthals, and he wasn’t sure if partying backstage with former monarchs was included in HHTV’s definition of professionalism.

Then again, one more glass couldn’t hurt.

“Yeah.” He held out his glass. “Go on, then.”

Charles flashed another one of those ridiculously bright smiles as he sloshed more champagne into their glasses, and Mike felt a strange tug in the pit of his stomach.

“You know,” said Charles, as they both finished their second glass, “I still feel rather bad about your story earlier on.”

Between the two glasses of champagne and the way Charles was staring intently at him with those big brown eyes, Mike was in a much more forgiving mood than he had been earlier.

“Ah, don’t worry about it.”

“Still,” said Charles, his voice dipping to a low murmur as he leaned in closer, “surely there must be some way in which I can repay you for that unfortunate mishap, mm?”

He was too far into Mike’s personal space now, and the sheer _intimacy_ of it, along with the way Charles’ dark, liquid eyes were staring into his own, made Mike feel suddenly light-headed.

Had to be the champagne bubbles going to his head. Had to be.

All the same, his throat was dry as he asked, “What did you have in mind, Your - Charles?”

Charles gave a slow smile, then reached out, his fingers toying with the collar of Mike’s shirt. Mike’s stomach flipped over. He felt weirdly exposed without his kevlar vest, but he’d given it to Sam when the Vikings had broken out of their dressing room, just in case. Not that a vest would be any shield from the looks that Charles was giving him. He felt that lurch in the pit of his stomach again... before it suddenly tugged lower.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Charles, as he let his finger drift down Mike’s chest, playing absently with each button as it went. “I am King, after all. I can give you anything you ask for, Mike.” He leaned in even further, until they were almost nose-to-nose and Mike couldn’t see anything except those _eyes_. “Anything you desire.”

Mike swallowed, that one whisper sending a thrill through every nerve-ending in his body. His brain decided to get in on the action, too, supplying him with several very interesting mental images involving him and Charles and the dressing table... or the wall... or...

No. He stamped down on _those_ quickly enough. He was a professional.

Hard to remember that, though, when he looked up and found Charles still staring at him, eyes heated and lips curved in a wicked smile that said he knew _exactly_ what was going through Mike’s head. Oh God, it must be written all over his face...

“Uh... really, it’s not necessary - um - Charles,” he said, quickly sidling out of his chair before his reaction to Charles’ insistent presence could become noticeable anywhere else. “The champagne was fine. Honestly.”

_Professionalism_ , he reminded himself. There were just some lines that you did not cross if you were a respected face of HHTV.

Charles, however, seemed to have no such scruples. He pouted, actually _pouted_. “Leaving so soon, Mike?”

“I just don’t think it’s such a good idea if I hang about,” said Mike, trying to be diplomatic.

“Nonsense!” He inched himself forward, and Mike couldn’t find it in himself to move as Charles ran a hand up his arm, that smile never wavering once. The professional part of Mike’s brain was still insisting that _now_ was his cue to pick Charles’ hand off him and leave, but the rest of him wasn’t listening, far more fascinated in seeing just how far that hand would go. Up it went, lingering over his bicep before curving smoothly over his shoulder before tucking itself round the nape of his neck and pulling him forward - though it didn’t have to pull very hard.

“I do feel rather dreadful about what happened,” Charles went on breathily. “Allow me to make it up to you properly.”

His mouth was so close now to Mike’s, he could _feel_ Charles’ words forming against his lips. He should move away now, he really should...

Then Charles closed the tiny gap left between them. Their mouths met, and Mike forgot how to think. He could feel Charles smirking against his mouth, and it sent a flash of irritation through him. Logically, that should make him want to push the smug bastard away, but somehow he found himself bringing his hands up to grab hold of Charles’ arms. In response, Charles pressed his body more insistently against Mike’s, his tongue flicking out to tease at Mike’s lips before slipping past them and coaxing Mike’s mouth open. Mike groaned as that ridiculously dextrous tongue twined with his own. Charles’ mouth was hot and still tasted of champagne, though the kick from it was completely different. He pressed his mouth hard against Charles’, and was rewarded with a high whine which made him decide _fuck professionalism_.

Without breaking the kiss, he pushed Charles back against the edge of the dressing table. He was already hard, cock straining against the confines of his jeans. It didn’t help that Charles was kissing him frantically, moustache tickling his mouth, clutching at Mike’s arms as he hoisted himself up on the dressing table, thin legs wrapping round Mike’s waist, pressing their groins together. Mike tore his mouth away from Charles’ long enough to gasp out, “ _Christ_.”

Charles smiled knowingly. “A little impatient, are we, Mike?”

“Shut up, Charlie.” Mike’s voice was rough, and when he pressed his mouth against Charles’ again, the kiss was even rougher, teeth knocking against each other almost as much as their lips and tongues, pulling muffled groans from them both.

Only too aware of the pressure of Charles’ cock against his own, even through the layers of clothing, he reached down, his mouth leaving Charles’ to lay rough kisses down his neck as his hands worked furiously at the folds of velvet and silk. Charles wasn’t lazy, either, his hands coming up to pop open the buttons of Mike’s shirt then running over the expanse of his chest, brushing over the dusting of dark hair before teasing his nipples to hardness.

Mike gave a gasp, a bitten-off “ _fuck_ ”, which made Charles grin as he slid his hands down now to unbuckle Mike’s belt and unzip his jeans - surprisingly adept for someone from an era before the invention of the zip - reaching round behind to pull down jeans and boxers together, and not remotely coy about letting his hands linger over Mike’s arse as he did so. He glanced down, briefly, then raised his eyes again, grinning like the cat who’d caught the proverbial canary.

“My, you _are_ rather impressive, aren’t you?”

Several ripostes occurred to Mike at that moment, but none of them were half as satisfying as simply - “Yes.”

Just as he said it, he finally worked out the intricacies of Charles’ breeches, yanking them down with one hand and freeing the flushed erection. Immediately, Charles’ skinny hips came up to meet his, his cock brushing against Mike’s in a way that had white-hot explosions going off all through Mike’s nervous system. He moaned through tightly-clenched teeth and pressed all his weight against Charles’, angling his hips and thrusting _up_.

“Oh!” Charles’ head fell back. “That’s it, Mike, _just_ like that...”

Mike grinned against Charles’ exposed throat, then thrust up again - and again - his moans joining Charles’ as they moved together. It was all a bit confused, really, caught in a tangle of limbs - Charles’ arms thrown around Mike’s shoulders, one of Mike’s arms supporting Charles’ back and the other braced against the wall as he moved his hips against Charles’. Their cocks pressed and slid together, hard and hot and slicked by the first few drops of pre-come. Mike moaned, and heard it echoed slightly more shrilly by Charles, feeling the frustration build, the blunt pressure beginning to sharpen inside him into something more intense. He was close - he could feel it building - and he thrust his hips against Charles’ more desperately. Once, twice - then he was thrown wide, the pleasure bursting behind his eyes. He swore, and heard Charles give a cry of his own, and suddenly they were coming together, clutching and gasping as they both went over the edge, and it was a good thing the dressing table was there to support them, or they’d have gone down in one sweaty heap.

It was only when Mike felt the last remnants of his orgasm fading away and he became aware of the real world again, that a dazed sense of horror took over him. He was in a dressing room of the Royal Albert Hall with his shirt undone and his trousers round his knees, his softening cock still pressed against that of King Charles II. God, and he’d been worrying earlier about sharing a drink with him!

Sharply, he pulled away from Charles, pulling up his jeans and doing them up hastily. Charles, however, didn’t seem remotely perturbed by what had just happened; in fact, he was still smiling that incorrigible smile of his as he reached over to the box of tissues in one corner, casually picking out one for himself and one for Mike as they cleaned off the sticky mess across their stomachs.

“Well, wasn’t that _splendid_?” he exclaimed, throwing the used tissue in the wastepaper basket and doing up his own clothes.

“With respect, Your Majesty, it shouldn’t really have happened -” began Mike, buttoning up his shirt with numb fingers, but Charles cut him off with a scoff.

“Oh, come now. You can’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that!” He grinned impishly, and pecked Mike on the cheek. “And I promise you, it’ll be even _better_ next time!”

Mike blinked. “Next... time?”

“Why, of course! I think we’ve formed a real rapport here today, you and I.” He readjusted his absurdly curly wig, then covered it with the flouncy hat from the door hook. “Unfortunately, though, I’d better dash. Don’t want to keep poor old Sothers holding the fort by himself _too_ long. But you know where to find me.” He turned back to Mike and winked. “I do hope I’ll have the honour of having HHTV send you to give me one of your delightful interviews soon!”

And with that, he was gone in a flourish of velvet and feathers and cheerful debauchery, the door shutting behind him, leaving Mike alone in the dressing room to pray that HHTV bosses never found out about this.


End file.
